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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
75
Academically,
the
Duke
had
often
reasoned
that
a
man
for
whom
life
holds
no
chance
of
happiness
cannot
too
quickly
shake
life
off.
Now,
of
a
sudden,
there
was
for
that
theory
a
vivid
application.
“Whether
‘tis
nobler
in
the
mind
to
suffer”
was
not
a
point
by
which
he,
“more
an
antique
Roman
than
a
Dane,”
was
at
all
troubled.
Never
had
he
given
ear
to
that
cackle
which
is
called
Public
Opinion.
The
judgment
of
his
peers--this,
he
had
often
told
himself,
was
the
sole
arbitrage
he
could
submit
to;
but
then,
who
was
to
be
on
the
bench?
Peerless,
he
was
irresponsible--the
captain
of
his
soul,
the
despot
of
his
future.
No
injunction
but
from
himself
would
he
bow
to;
and
his
own
injunctions--so
little
Danish
was
he--had
always
been
peremptory
and
lucid.
Lucid
and
peremptory,
now,
the
command
he
issued
to
himself.
“So
sorry
to
have
been
so
long,”
carolled
a
voice
from
above.
The
Duke
looked
up.
“I’m
all
but
ready,”
said
Zuleika
at
her
window.
That
brief
apparition
changed
the
colour
of
his
resolve.
He
realised
that
to
die
for
love
of
this
lady
would
be
no
mere
measure
of
precaution,
or
counsel
of
despair.
It
would
be
in
itself
a
passionate
indulgence--a
fiery
rapture,
not
to
be
foregone.
What
better
could
he
ask
than
to
die
for
his
love?
Poor
indeed
seemed
to
him
now
the
sacrament
of
marriage
beside
the
sacrament
of
death.
Death
was
incomparably
the
greater,
the
finer
soul.
Death
was
the
one
true
bridal.
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